What Comes After
by evileduck
Summary: Based on the play by Andrew Lloyd Weber, this is the tale of the Phantom of the Opera and his life after Christine and the events that transpired at the Opera Populaire. Erik must make the journey to survive without the love of his life. Can he do it and will he ever learn to love again? Strong Language, Suggestive Themes, and Violence/Gore.
1. Sparing the Undeserved

Glass glistened the ground. They were shards of mirror, shattered and splattering the island floor like a canopy of the remains of his broken mind.

_Gone. She's gone. _The thoughts sounded foreign-alien. How could this happen? How could she choose that prancing buffoon over _him_, her teacher? Years they had spent together: him teaching her, her listening and learning. She grew up loving him as her master and her guide. Yet, she still chose the young fool over him. He knew why; his face drove away everyone he loved. But, she told him that she wasn't afraid of his face anymore. Could there really be something so deeply wrong inside him that turned his precious rose away from him?

"_Christine_." He whispered, despite himself. The words flowed out of the Phantom's mouth like water, but this water was full of acid. Bitterness, sorrow, loss, grief, and pain all summed up into one tiny, exquisite word. A single name that chopped him to pieces like a meat cleaver to beef.

Christine. From the very moment he heard her sing, she reminded Erik of a blossoming red rose. Christine was pure, passionate and gorgeous in her own flawless, innocent sort of way. She was one spot of the great Opera that was not corrupted so badly as himself, and her voice was like the call of an angel. Erik followed her and loved her more truly than any man could love a woman, yet he was not enough. Never would be enough, compared to handsome, young and strong Raoul. Raoul de Chagny, Vimconte and lover of the arts. Not only was he rich, beautiful, and sensitive, the boy even had a history with his Christine. It didn't take long for Raoul to rekindle Christine's childish romance with him, perhaps it never died. None the less, in a matter of days Raoul had Christine rejecting the Phantom and fawning over his perfectly styled chocolate locks.

Erik absent-mindedly tugged at his own dark hair, nearly onyx black curtains that fell around his face. Normally, he would have them swept back, slickened with oil that way they stayed out of his way. After the events that had transpired that night, Erik's hair had come undone from its normal style and hanged as dreadfully as he did, behind the curtain wall which separated him from the mob attempting to murder him.

Their voices rose up in irate song, calling for his death. He could hear their footsteps on the stairs leading to his dungeon, and Erik could almost imagine Madame Giry leading them. Her face would be resolved like stone, finally convinced of the madness within the Phantom. She would finally be ready to finish what others had not, what others could not do. The irony of his plight brought a cold, sarcastic smirk to his marred face. He half wondered if he should take his own life, just to spite the mob. Erik couldn't bring himself to find a proper weapon though, so he just sat there, waiting for them to find him.

They didn't find him: well, at least not all of them did. It was Madame Giry's daughter, the ballerina, who ended up discovering his perch of depression. She was clad in black trousers, a white blouse, and black boots. In her left hand, Meg Giry brandished a saber and Eric thought how intriguing the whole situation was. Here stood the daughter of his savior about to end his life. She dressed in gear almost pirate-like to finish the duty. She just appeared so...manly: even her long blond hair was pulled back. The fire in her eyes was not the same fire that shone in Christine's eyes, as she told Eric she hated him. It did seem to fit. A rose is always closest to a thorn and so Christine was closest to Meg. Erik watched her with amusement as she started towards him, her movements feline.

Meg held the saber aloft, yet tightly. She was so ready to strike, ready to end his reign of terror. He breathed a sigh of relief as she raised her arm for the killing blow and...stopped.

Erik stared at her as though she were something nasty he found in the lake. She looked about as horrified as he felt dismayed.

"I-I can't do it." She explained with surprise. Her hand lowered to her side and became limp. Her sky blue eyes widened in shock. Meg slumped down on the steps in shame and stared at the saber which she still grasped. Eric turned away in disgust. He should've known better. Meg was the soil to Christine and he, the thorn. "I'm sorry." She said out loud and Erik bristled. Was she apologizing to him? Why? "I'm sorry, Christine." Meg whispered and clutched her knees to her chest. Ah, so she had been speaking to Christine after all. Even though this should have allowed Eric to relax, he was more tense than ever.

_Why is she still here? Is she going to kill me, or whisper sweet nothings as if it's not supposed to crush me knowing that Christine was closer to this imp than myself? _The Phantom wondered angrily to himself. His fist clenched tightly, nails biting into flesh and blood dripping down his palm onto the floor. He looked at his fist in surprise.

"I should kill you, you know." The high-pitched voice of Meg told him. He didn't really care though-he was more fascinated by how his existence had depreciated into a pool of angsty emotions. Meg had the voice of a child, or a naive woman. Especially when she sang, Meg always reminded him of a cherub: infernally adorable and terrifying in its innocence. "You're a monster and a murderer, but I cannot kill an unarmed man." She continued, while Erik chastised himself for being afraid of such a petite person. Though her obstinance was a force to be reckoned with, Erik had already accepted that he was not allowed to feel any emotions attached to anyone besides his love, Christine. "What am I going to do with you?" Meg questioned him.

For the love of all that is eternal and beautiful in its own way, why was this woman still here? Either kill him or get out his sight, Erik always said. Well, not always, but now as was the case. He worked his frustration into his face without much effort and, with anticipation of Meg's fearful expression, turned to glare at her insolence.

Oddly enough, the girl didn't even flinch though Erik was sure he must have looked horrifying. Her face was so devoid of emotion. Actually, there was something there. What was it...perhaps, thought? Yes, Meg Giry, in the face of the wrathful Phantom of the Opera, was thoughtful. "I could kill you, but that would be giving you a break. I think I'll let you live, so you have to spend the rest of your days knowing that no one does or will ever care about you." She said finally. Meg stood, turned on her heel, and marched out of Erik's secret cove.

As she announced the Phantom's remarkable disappearance to the rest of the mob, something inside Erik that he didn't knew was still there fractured.


	2. Midnight Stroll

The next few weeks passed quickly like a shadow creeping over Erik's life. Now more than ever did he feel alone. He had always been alone really. Growing up as a child, his only friend was a toy monkey who played the symbols. As an adult, he immersed himself in different fields of knowledge, but he always came back to the Opera Populaire. It was his home, really, and he belonged there as much as Christine belonged there with him. _Christine_. It always came back to Christine for Erik. He spent his recent years loving her more than she would ever love him, hoping that maybe he was wrong and there actually was something lovable about him. He should've guessed what would have happened. No song would ever capture her beauty or his misery. He did try to write, since it was always his one way of expressing himself. He could vent every emotion into a single song, yet, when he picked up his pen, nothing came from it. There was some invisible block on his connection to music. For Erik, this only served as another example that he was slowly fading away.

This was the case of today, as he tried to write something-anything. He had come up with three pages of a play called Tragedy's Score. Within these pages, the main character is murdered by his wife's lover, who is in turn kidnapped and sold into slavery by the lover's two evil henchmen. Erik picked up the pages, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them into the hastily swept pile of broken glass. He discovered that some six days ago. The shards of glass covering his entire island had been swept into two piles of dust. Erik had a feeling that he knew who it was, he just didn't understand why she had done it; this would be the second time the woman had helped him, when he did not want her help at all. Erik stood up quickly in his anger and paced the floor of his familiar cave. What was he supposed to do? He could not write for he could not think of anything to write about except his misery.

Erik had turned into an exceptionally desperate case of self pity.

He flung himself onto the oyster-like, red velvet bed which he Christine had slept in only a month ago. He wondered what she was doing with Raoul. Were they married already? Would they do it as fast as possible out of burning love for each other? Or would they wait so that their families could gather and put on a splendid celebration?

"Christine! _Christine!_ Have you forgotten me forever? I love you, I loved you. I cannot forget you too." The words burst forth from the Phantom in the form of a tortured song and broke off into weak whispers. His exclamations bounced around the chasms of the Opera Populaire and he knew that, if anyone listened hard enough, they could be heard calling for Christine in his desperation. Right now, Erik didn't care. He wouldn't care if it brought another raving mob to his heels, barking out orders for his death once again. He pried himself from his bed and self-loathing, only to return to the familiar organ again. Familiar...everything was far too familiar. He couldn't forget her, if he was surrounded by memories of her. Fingers splaying on the organ keys, Erik gracefully played a tune painfully familiar to himself. He hummed the words he had written to its tune and thought of something that would take him far away from Christine. Where could he go that he wouldn't think about Christine the entire time?

The melody tilted and lilted like the light of a thousand stars dancing to the chorus of the moon and other night creatures like himself. The answer was simple; there was nothing that did not make Erik think of Christine. He woul have to find something as equally distracting in order to mask his memories of her. Another opera? No, that would make things worse. He needed to leave the Opera tonight and venture out into the city. Sticking to the shadows, he would search for an answer to his questions. If he found no answer, he would return to his doom and waste away his days in this dungeon, alone, forever alone.

It was a simple quest, but one that could not be taken lightly. He must guard himself, so that no enemies might discover him. If he was even slightly careless, it would all be a waste and he would discover nothing, save maybe the sharp and sweet bitterness of death. Erik found his black cloak and his mask. After placing both on, he fetched his rapier and pocketed a small figurine of Christine to remind him of his task.

Paris is a beautiful city at night with the merry life that fills its streets at any hour. As Erik paced the shadows untouched by the festivity of young love, the beauty of the city was like washed out watercolor, turning dismal and dreary. Even as Erik watched the couples dancing around him, everything seemed empty. The splendor of Paris was nothing compared to his rose, his Christine. Erik heaved a heavy sigh and internally chastised himself for being so pitiful. He would not wallow in his depression; he had a task to accomplish and he would succeed. Erik strutted forward under the protective blanket of night, searching for an opening in his own character. He had to succeed.

As he turned a corner, Erik bumped into a small, feminine figure. Though his cloak covered his face, Erik's hands flew to his head to pull it tighter. The figure in a light gray coat, hat, and head scarf. Glanced up at him and darted past him, as if his presence stung her.

He walked down the alley, a skip in his step, and a new fear in his heart. The shadows he stalked now seemed feral and dangerous, even to him. Erik's heart began to race and he felt goosebumps rising on his skin; he could swear someone was watching him...it would be alright though, the entrance to the alley was not far ahead. If he moved a little faster, he could-

"Hello, friend. Nice night for a stroll isn't it?" A nasally yet distinctly masculine voice pierced the night air from behind Erik. Turning around, Erik saw that a scrawny little man had indeed been following him. Erik felt himself relax at the pitiful sight of this scoundrel; he would handle this man quickly in a matter of seconds. At the sight of the gun in the man's hand, Erik's fear creeped back up. "I like that coat of yours," The thief whistled. "What nice big pockets they have. I wonder what they hold?" He grinned a toothless grin which faded off into a scowl as Erik didn't even flinch. If he ever learned one thing from his childhood, it was how to hide your emotions.

"Empty 'em, before I empty your skull, idiot." The scoundrel growled. He reminded Erik of a fox, a dangerous, deceitful fox. Erik threw back his hood to reveal his mask. He lifted his chin haughtily at the bandit and moved his hand to his waist.

"I think you are more of an imbecilic than I could ever hope to be, even if I bashed my head upon a rock for several months." Erik replied snobbishly to the criminal, who looked a little indignant amongst other things. After all, he was robbing the Phantom, not the other way around. Instead of insulting Erik back, however, the thief had something even worse.

"You! You're that Opera Ghost, aren't you? The Phantom of the Opera. I know Andre, and I guarantee he will pay quite the hefty fee for your head on a silver platter." The man threatened, scratching his stubbly chin. The Phantom raised his hands in a surrendering sort of gesture, unhappy about this turn of events. The criminal aimed his pistol square at Erik's chest and made to squeeze the trigger.

A hand flew out from behind the scrawny man and deftly slit his throat with a small pocket knife. Blood poured from the criminal's wound as he slumped against the ground, twitching before finally dying. The person who had slit the man's throat was none other than the small lady in the grey coat. Erik reached for his hood quickly at the sight of her, but he stopped him with a flick of her hand.

"There's no need for that. Though I am curious, what are you doing out here, Erik?" A familiar voice asked him. The woman removed her hood and scarf, after safely storing her pocket knife back into coat's inner pockets. Erik was not surprised to find Madame Antoinette Giry before him.


	3. Finally, a decision

"That was a foolish idea, Erik. You could have been killed wandering the alleys like that." Antoinette chastised the Phantom as she poured him a cup of tea. He felt more foolish sitting in her loft on a silvery blue love seat and drinking tea than he had walking around the alley. After she slew the mugger, Madame Giry had invited Erik to her apartment for a drink and a long talk. He accepted because they were once friends, and she just saved his life. Twice she had rescued him and he had done nothing for her in return; there was nothing he could do to repay her, as much as he might wish to. As he sat before Antoinette, Erik wondered why she still helped him. Where some people feared or abhorred his presence, Antoinette seemed to pity him. _Is that grounds for friendship?_ moments like these made him curious.

"Is that what you want-to die alone, an old man in some cold and dank alley, at the hands of a traipsing mongrel?" She continued, her brow wrinkled in disapproval. Erik felt like a child being scolded by his nanny. He clasped his hands together and rubbed them for warmth; he certainly wasn't receiving any from her. He wasn't used to being held to higher expectations, so he found the situation more welcome than most would.

"Since when did traipsing mongrels," He used Antoinette's own words against her. "attack innocent townsfolk whilst they shopped for groceries?" Erik retorted lazily. Antoinette snorted her disappointment at his choice of defense, but her eyes softened. The naive and empathetic girl who had stolen him from the clutches of his slavers slowly rose to her surface.

"I wouldn't exactly call you innocent." She responded, her thin lips twitching into a small smile. Amusement bubbled up inside his chest and Erik couldn't help but chortle a little. His laughter mixed with hers, in the sparsely decorated room. After the small intrusion of unexpected happiness, Antoinette's smile flattened to a thin line again and Erik once again became a shadow of emotion. "You really should be more careful. Now more than ever does it seem that everyone wants you dead." She sighed. Erik examined the lining of his black leather gloves to avoid meeting her disapproving glare.

"Caution is for the living and, since I have not done that in quite some time, I feel no need to be careful." He answered coldly, much to Antoinette's chagrin. She slumped into the adjacent armchair near him with exasperation.

"Yes, but you are still _alive_ and some would want to keep it that way." She returned, matching his steely gaze eye for eye. He slapped his hand down on the armchair in frustration and leaned forward a little, allowing irritation to glimmer in his eyes. Antoinette shrank back into the armchair.

"Who? You? Certainly nobody that matters." Sarcasm dripped off his tongue. Antoinette opened her mouth to answer him, but a knock on the door interrupted herself. She glanced around quickly, before standing up.

"Hide yourself." She ordered simply and gestured toward a closet at the end of the hall. The Phantom reluctantly obeyed, reminding himself that her not being persecuted for defending him would fulfill any obligations he had towards Antoinette. After brushing herself off daintily, she stepped towards the door, placing a hand on the handle. She paused and called out, "Who is it?"

"_Maman_! I have wonderful news. Let me in!" the chirpy young voice of Madame Giry's daughter, Meg, called out from the hall. The Phantom could hear the door open and slam closed. Light footsteps marked the sign of an apprentice dancer approaching. "I found these gloves while I was shopping. Aren't they beautiful?" Meg's voice sounded dreamy and ecstatic. Antoinette gasped and Erik could almost imagine the look on her face. Surprise? Amazement?

"_Mon dieu! _Meg Giry, how could you buy such..._risque_ things? They are not even your color." Antoinette's tone was reproachful. Erik wondered how terrible the gloves could look. What color would illicit such a reaction? Acid green or, perhaps, lemon yellow? He tried to imagine burnt sienna on the tiny hands of Antoinette's daughter. He almost gagged; surely, there could be nothing uglier.

"Do not be silly, _maman_. I bought them for Christine," She hesitated and the tension was palpable in the air. Burnt sienna on Christine? It _could_ work, though he much prefered- "Rouge. A scarlet color. It brings out the rose in her cheeks, no? And it would make a lovely wedding present. I just wish I could have found a matching scarf." Meg ended with a light huff. So, Christine _was_ marrying Raoul as quickly as possible. He shouldn't have been surprised-this was what Christine had wanted-yet the cramped closet seemed to suffocate him even more. His hands flew up quickly to push against the walls, hopefully stopping them from crushing Erik. Instead he was rewarded with a loud smacking sound, which had to have been heard by the two women.

"Was that the cat?" Meg questioned her mother. Her voice was gentle, quiet...and suspicious. He heard the sharp intake of breath and more felt than heard the footsteps that approached the closet. "I do not remember locking him in the cupboard, though..." The closet door clicked and flew open. Erik stumbled out of it into the cool air of the room and nearly crashed into the delicate form of Meg. She screeched and jumped back from him. "There is a burglar! A sneak! A, um, a..." Her wailing voice trailed off and Erik had to forcibly keep himself from covering his ears, or her mouth. Instead, Erik drew himself up and raised his chin defiantly, casting a magnificent presence over the trembling girl. Meg drew away from him as one would from the plague or something equally terrible. "Mother, it is-"

"I know who he is, Meg. Do not be afraid; I will explain everything." Antoinette placed a reassuring hand on her daughter's quaking shoulder. Meg looked up at her mother, perhaps wondering if she should trust her. It only took a moment before she finally nodded in agreement. Antoinette led her daughter back to the love seat which the Phantom had just recently inhabited. He followed after them anxiously and took the seat of the chair opposite them. Erik fixed the family with a wary eye; how had he gotten himself into this mess? No matter, it would be dealt with soon enough.

"I found E-the Phantom in an alley. He had..a little run in with some unpleasant folk and I brought him back here to recover from the incident." Madame Giry began to explain, primly folding her hands across her lap. Meg's forehead wrinkled with confusion. She looked between her mother and Erik, saving a look of contempt for the latter.

"What do you mean? What happened?" Meg asks Antoinette.

"It's not important. I succeeded in getting what I was looking for." Erik answered for Antoinette, standing quickly. With an extravagant bow, Erik bid Antoinette goodbye by saying, "Thank you for your help. I shall take my leave now." He gave Meg an indifferent nod and, grabbing his cloak, made his exit.

* * *

Later in his cavernous abode, Erik sat thoughtfully by the familiar organ and placed a leather-bound journal into a small napsack. In the expanse of travelling between the near robbery and the awkward conversation with the Giry women, Erik had accepted a piece of truth: he was never going to be able to let go of Christine. With her, Erik had found true love and did not intend on losing it. Though he had let her leave with Raoul, he did not really believe she was happy. He promised himself that he would not interfere in their relationship, unless he found it obvious that she was unhappy. Erik told himself that everything he was doing was for Christine's happiness, but-deep down-he knew he had alternate, selfish motives. For these excuses, Erik had found the will to ensure that Christine would be happy in her marriage, and what better way than by crashing her wedding?

He knew exactly how to go about it. Erik had already made his arrangements; the only thing left was how he was to get there, which he had the answer to as well. He would travel with Meg Giry.


	4. Journey of Deceit

**I decided to do an author's note for once. It's so unnerving. ;a; Anyways, thanks to everyone who's read so far, and hugs for those who followed and reviewed! It's much appreciated. ^^ But I'll stop writing now, and _you_ can get started reading. ;)**

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Meg Giry stood in front of her cream colored vanity. Hair brushes, rouge, and lip stick adorned its counter along with the occasional sprinkle of glitter and garland. Meg stared at her own reflection, pale blue eyes and white skin, with a regretful light in her eyes. In her slender right hand, she held the sugar-colored point shoes. The rehearsal for _Idoménée _had gone splendidly, up until Maxine had to bash right into Meg. Meg had been incapable of keeping her balance and ended up toppling over like a rag doll. In turn, she landed right on Madame Carlotta. The awful woman screeched like a poodle being stepped on, before blowing her top on Meg. Meg often wondered why Carlotta stuck around. Monsieur Firmin and Andre let go most of the staff after the...incident, and that hag was the only one to stay behind-besides Meg, of course. As if the Phantom disappearing hadn't been bad enough for her, but now Carlotta was willing to take the chance and sing in a doomed Opera whose owner wanted to see a saw beam dropped on her head? Honestly, sometimes Meg wondered if there was a brain inside the diva's head or not. 'Course, she couldn't really gripe too much. The last encounter Meg had with the Opera Ghost didn't exactly involve constituting revenge for the deaths and injuries of her friends and coworkers. In fact, it did quite the opposite.

Meg had been out shopping for a few baguettes and some tea for an afternoon snack. _It is important for a lady to behave properly, when being courted._ Madame Giry, Meg's mother, often reminded her. Indeed Meg and her mother often had such "tea times" to practice lady-like behaviors. Dancing doesn't last forever, or so Meg had been told, and now better than ever is the time for Meg to marry. To be honest, Meg was a little wary of marriage lately, considering her own best friend's dangerous, love triangle. Sure, Meg would never have to deal with something like that-extravagant men like Raoul or, thankfully, the Phantom were not attracted to simple women like Meg; nevertheless, courtship and a lifetime commitment to one man seemed like too large of a decision to make at the moment. Still, eventually Monsieur Firmin or Monsieur Andre would find someone to sell the Opera Populaire to, and then where would Meg be? Would she have to struggle to find a new occupation? Would anyone want to hire a dancer whose only recommendation comes from the men who owned the greatest tragedy of a theater?

She set herself down into an adjacent chair, shoes slipping from her hands. A shaky breath ripples through her nose and down her chest. That's not the kind of thinking she needed. Why did she do this so much? As if she enjoyed the weight of her own shame, Meg had to relive each humiliating moment of her life every time she peered into a mirror. Lately, she seemed to be doing this so much more.

While Meg was out shopping a few nights ago, she had found a lovely pair of silky, red gloves. The scarlet fabric called to her, begging her to take the pair home. It took a minute's hesitation before she gave in. She had bought the gloves and hurried home in glee. Only after half way through her voyage home did Meg realize she had no idea what to use the gloves for. Her mother certainly wouldn't approve of Meg wearing such...audacious clothing; moreover, Meg didn't own a coat or dress that would match that exact shade. Guilt sank down around Meg like mist in April morning. Her mind prattled on, scolding her like her mother probably was going to as soon as Meg returned home. She had sighed and rounded a corner, home looming in sight, when the thought came to her. _I will be leaving in a mere week for Christine's wedding, and I have not yet gotten her a gift. Why not use these? _She had looked down at the silken gloves. Meg was torn: part of her longed to keep the gloves for herself and part of her rejoiced at having an excuse for just buying them. She decided at last; the rouge gloves would be a gift to Christine. They would, after all, look better on Christine anyway, what with her curling dark hair and all. Meg had finally come up with a decent plan, as she knocked on her own home's door. Meg's mood lightened and she felt an invisible weight lift off of her: whether it was stress from the gloves or what the future held for her, Meg didn't know. The past year had been ridiculous and things just seemed to get crazier, especially when Meg returned to find the Opera Ghost in her own home.

The aggressive man had been...drinking tea with her mother? _Mon dieu_, what was the world coming to? The devilish creature carried himself with more pomp than Monsieur Firmin's hair, and that's saying a lot. The way the beast strutted around her own simple living room, glancing reproachfully at Meg, or slouching in her father's armchair. It just didn't seem right. His presence terrified Meg, and yet, at the same time, emboldened her. Perhaps, it was her loath for the manipulative slug, or perhaps the Ghost inspired that in everyone who met him. Meg didn't like to think on the thought that even she was affected by this Phantom's mere presence. Meg would not be treated like a toy to be played with at someone's whims, especially in the hands of a madman like the Opera Ghost. In light of the recent events including the Phantom's survival solely on her own intervention, showed Meg that she wasn't doing a very good job at resisting riveting call.

_Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Meg. Cheer up!_ Meg encouraged herself, snapping back to the present. She glanced from her chair back to the mirror and peered at her reflection. She looked tired-no, exhausted was more like it. She sighed audibly and began to change into her street clothes. The day's rehearsals were over and Maxine was no longer with the Opera Populaire, even though it couldn't really last that long with so few dancers as it had now. Word on the street was that the Opera and its employees' days were numbered. Their time for glory had come and gone, and maybe that was for the best. Perhaps it really was time for Meg to settle down. After all, Christine already was. She seemed happier now than ever before; at least, that's what the letters told Meg. Running the wooden brush through her thick blond hair, Meg wondered if she would end up as happy as Christine some day. Not only was the Vicomte handsome and compassionate, but he was wealthy and powerful, as well. As Meg wrapped a blue scarf around her head to protect from the wind, she stared at her blue eyes in the vanity mirror. _Questions. Always asking questions, chaton. Sometimes silence is the only answer._ Her own voice answered her, gentle and pleasant. With a last quick glance at her reflection, Meg returned home before she could ask the voice more.

* * *

"_Maman_! I will be late! The carriage will arrive in a half hour and I have not yet packed my slippers!" Meg Giry glided around her room, stuffing night gowns into a large, floral print suitcase. Madame Giry appeared behind her, holding a small bag and pursing her lips at her daughter._  
_

"I have already packed your slippers and the rest of your shoes, child," Antoinette Giry explained, exasperation evident in her eyes: Antoinette was a very stiff woman with her daughter. Meg took the bag from her mother, thanking her for the help. "Yes, yes. Hurry now, or you'll be too late!" Madame Giry urged her daughter into action, and Meg did her best to comply. Darting around the little flat like a bee searching for a flower in a field of weeds, Meg slowly acquired her luggage and consolidated it into the corner near the door. Standing in the entrance, bags in hand, she felt so...rushed? She felt almost like, if she walked out now, she would never return to her home again.

Meg shook off the foreboding feeling. _Do not be ridiculous! Of course, I will return home one day_. She scolded herself inwardly and gathered up her courage to step outside. Something in Meg still seemed to hold her back. A hand on her shoulder offered encouragement and affection. Meg looked over her shoulder to see her mother, the slightest of smirks displayed on her usually stern face. "Go on, _cherie_." Antoinette nodded her head at her daughter in the slightest of movements.

"It is a long journey.." Meg trailed off.

"Then I suggest you get started now. If you miss the carriage, you might just miss your best friend's wedding and you wouldn't want that. Would you?" Her mother's smirk had disappeared, but there was still a light, comforting tone to her voice. Meg and Antoinette had never truly been separated before and now Meg was off to some fancy estate for the next month. However, this was both a time of worry and joy; better is the attention spent on true issues than small trifles such as this. "Go _on_, Meg." Madame Giry pushed finally and Meg embraced her mother quickly.

"Well, I'm off. I love you, _maman_." Meg bid her mother adieu, smiling out of nervousness. Her mother smiled back and wished her luck with a, "And you, _fille_." With this final moment of affection, the Giry women split ways. Meg carried her luggage out to a small, yet comfortable carriage. It had been a gift sent from Christine: easy transportation to the Vicomte de Chagny's estate. Little did either of the women know that the man helping load Meg's luggage onto the horse-drawn cart was not the original driver hired by the Vicomte Raoul. And, as the man and woman began their long journey, the imposter spurred his enemies' fine horses forward with a glee that could only come from one man in Paris.

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**Whoof. So. What do you think? Did I capture the essence of Meg well enough, or are there areas I could improve on? Please feel free to review! The love is greatly appreciated. ^^ I'll do my best to keep this going!**


	5. A Deal for Two

**Here we are with another chapter! I'm so sorry it took so long to update. :P Damn dialogue getting in my way... I just want to give another thanks to everyone who's reviewed, followed, or favorited. It gives me inspiration to keep sharing my fangirl ideas. Also, I'll be taking even a little more creative freedom in the coming chapters; I plan on introducing characters that didn't exist in the play or movie. Don't worry: no one too important. ^^**

**I apologize in advance if I butcher my French.**

**If anyone has a question or comment, feel free to drop a review or a PM. Enjoy!**

* * *

_There's nothing like a long trip,_ Meg thought to her self in the onyx carriage, whose fine black steeds dragged her along through the dense foliage of untainted forestry. She savored the silence of the greenery around her, permeable by nothing except the clacking of hooves and snapping of the driver's whip. It was quiet enough to truly allow her mind to roam, and there was plenty of uninterrupted time. Though Meg had tasted travel before, this voyage felt different. And, of course, it was in many ways. Her destination was the home of her unrelated sister and her fiance. It was a difficult concept to grasp: Christine marrying already.

Meg always envisioned the day in which she would marry, and it usually came before her best friend's special day. In her daydreams, Meg would wed a handsome, respected man who had the kind of laugh that made you want to join in. He usually varied in appearance, but the man always had the same qualities: passion, poise, and the ability to find joy in the saddest of days. Those qualities were the kind that Meg really valued, because you never really know what life will throw at you. The tragedies and miracles of the past year often reminded her of that.

Even when things seemed so downcast, there was always the opening to thrive.

Savor the struggle and, when you finally break free, remember that you overcame challenges already so things can only get better from here. Christine helped teach Meg that. Despite having lost her father twice really, Christine had this amazing capability of bouncing back and remaining optimistic and caring. That's part of the reason why Meg envisioned her Monsieur "Charming" and Christine at her side. Then, when Christine's life slowed down and she found that right man, Meg would be at her side too.

It's funny how things turn out sometimes.

Sure, Christine found true love first, but Meg saw it more as her being at Christine's side now and vice versa in the future. In the end, both of the women would experience the intense beauty of their individual lives to one day fall in love, settle down, and teach their own children the ropes of discovering their passion.

As Meg peered out her window, glancing at blossoming trees she passed, she thought fondly on the days to come for her friend and for her self, in turn.

* * *

Trees seem to have a language of their own. What do their whispers speak of? Who do they call to? Perhaps it is the birds, waking the living in the morning and singing hymns to Mother Nature at noon. At that moment, the forest creatures were silent, hidden in coves of brush and rock from the prying eyes of sunshine. The only noise around was the pattering of horse hooves as they pounded steadily against the earthen path before the dark carriage. Erik flicked his wrist, sending a sharp lash at one of the panting horses before him. The stallion huffed in discontentment yet charged forward, incapable of slacking under the Phantom's constant watch. The peace in the air surrounded him, urging Erik onwards in the direction of his thoughts.

Erik's pulse raced and his blood yearned to see her again, even though he already knew what he would find. Christine was happily in love with her perfect fiance, Raoul. There was nothing for Erik in Christine's new home, yet he had to do this. He had to witness it for himself; he needed her to cut the final string that still tied his heart to hers. The thing was, Erik had no idea what to do afterwards. Did he just return to the Opera Populaire? Would he be able to go on living the miserable, lonely existence he had before? Christine brought beauty into his life; how could he just pretend that never happened?

Even if it broke him, he was going to complete his quest. To Erik, he was already broken- nothing would change that.

There is always the question of whether the ends justify the means. His question is whether the means justify the ends and, right now, the answer is yes.

* * *

_Night descended on the two thoughtful individuals, and the driver pulled the carriage to a stop in a cozy, small village. There was a tidy inn whose keeper, the good Monsieur David, spent more time caring for it than he did sleeping. With the help of the secret impostor, Meg Giry had her luggage taken to a small, plain room where she would rest, before finishing her trip on the morrow. It was around this time that the driver decided to make his presence known. _

* * *

_"Dîner dans une demi-heure, madame." _The stout innkeeper informed Meg as the coach driver set her last bag beside the delicate bed. The older man was very kind to her, when she arrived, and she got the feeling that the bushy little man didn't often get visitors from the city. He seemed a little wary of her, when Meg walked in beside the ever silent driver, but the gentile man warmed up soon enough. His cheery wife, Madame David, had put a pot of some mouth-watering soup over a hot fire upon their arrival. Meg's stomach reminded her of its glee at this, as she thanked her stoic companion for his trouble.

"_Merci_. Will you join me for dinner?" Meg offered the quiet man. She didn't expect a reply but was still pleased by his half-nod, that ebony cloak masking his face. Though the dinner would be a silent one, Meg was grateful that she wouldn't spend it alone. "Then I will get ready. I have a feeling Madame David makes a very good stew." Meg offered her a companion a friendly smile to which she received a similar half-nod. The odd character delivered a sweeping bow at her feet, turned on his heel, and left Meg alone with her clothes. Meg's stomach tightened at his departure. For some reason, she got a feeling that tonight's supper wouldn't be all that boring.

It didn't take long for Meg to get ready. She changed out of her travelling clothes and into a more comfortable lavender gown; it was something decent enough to be seen in, but informal enough to allow her to spend the evening relaxing. Leaving the rest of her still snugly packed clothing haphazardly lying across the plain bed, Meg ventured out of her room and down a sparsely decorated hall. She followed its short length to the tavern style lounge area of the inn. Though the stone inn was not exactly elegant, its red wood finishing and polished furniture gave the place a warm sense of cleanliness and safety. In the middle of the far right wall was a quite tall, single wooden door. It opened up into said lounge area and to the left where Meg was standing. Right before the door, and to Meg's immediate right, sat a lonely round table. It was only large enough for two petite people to sit at, but it was well taken care of, nonetheless. To her left was a compact bar. Three stools sat next to it, and along the back wall behind the bar a few bottles of different alcohols were lined up.

Meg moved to sit at the table; it was more private over there at any rate. Nearly as soon as she sat down, Madame and Monsieur David brought out the hot pot of soup and delivered a steaming bowl of some kind of potato stew. Monsieur David offered Meg a drink and, though she wasn't particularly fond of alcohol, Meg requested a glass of red wine: you can't exactly expect grape juice, travelling through a forest. So, Meg sipped her wine occasionally and hesitated before taking a bite of soup. The coach driver said he would be coming for dinner, but perhaps he had changed his mind. Should she eat without him, or should she wait? As Meg sat pondering her answer, a whinny from nearby alerted her that someone was near.

_It has to be one of Raoul's horses; I'm sure I saw none other than ours, when we arrived._ Meg thought to herself. If the neighing horse was one of Raoul's, then surely the driver had arrived. Sure enough, the tall cloaked man entered the inn via the front door a few moments later. His hooded face peered around that room, taking in the environment. When at last the man noticed Meg in her corner, he sauntered over and joined her.

"Hello there, Monsieur." Meg greeted him and he gave her a small bow in response. _Again, the bow. _Meg pondered to her self. The driver sat down, folding his tall frame into the tiny chair in an almost too elegant way. _He carries himself proudly for just a carriage driver, but who am I to object?_ "I'm glad you made it. I would've been dreadfully bored, if I had to eat alone." Meg continued, making small talk. The man's hood gaped at her endlessly, and she partly wondered if anyone was inside it. Madame David hobbled over to the table and presented the driver with a bowl of stew, but he just waved her away. Madame David looked confused as she set the bowl on the counter instead, just in case the man wanted it later. Meg felt equally confused; if he wasn't hungry, then why'd he come to eat with her? She didn't dare to voice her opinions just yet. Instead, she ate as delicately as possible from her soup, while the silence ruminated in the air.

At last, Meg could bare the infinite quiet no longer. She already felt awkward being watched while she was eating by a man whose face she could not see, no less. Meg folded her hands across her chest and tilted her head with intrigue at her companion. "Are you not hungry?" Meg asked the man curiously to which he didn't reply. Her face flushed in irritation; she had had enough of these games. "Well, I will leave you to your brooding then. I have rest to catch up on." Meg announced as she pulled away from the table. Before she had moved as much as a couple feet, the man's outstretched arm begged her to stop.

"I'm not brooding." He said at last. His voice was clear and controlled, containing a soulful presence to it that the voice of an experienced singer or politician often had. His voice was also familiar to her. Yet, this man had not spoken to her until now. How could she know him? He was graceful and refined, yet commanding in his movements without needing to speak. He was not at all like a driver, more like...

"I know your voice." Meg said suddenly, her own full of suspicion. Her expression of bafflement turning to one of fear. "Why are you...?" She trailed off as her companion pulled back his secretive hood, revealing himself to be none other than the Phantom of the Opera. Meg sucked her breath in, sounding like a strangled hiss. "Why are _you_ here?" She finished her thought from before, suspicions confirmed from the revelation.

Erik laid his right hand on the table, turning it over before his gaze. His eyes were glazed over and impenetrable behind a full face covering mask, whose black frame was inlaid with azure carvings. His eyes flicked up from his suspended hand to Meg's own uncomfortable face. There was a pleading longing burning in those icy orbs that unsettled Meg. "I came for the party, and you?" He replied, voice taught and cautious. Though his words were light, they were laced with a deeper meaning that Meg understood only too well.

"Don't. Just don't." Meg Giry's fragile voice shook with suppressed irritation. "I won't let you ruin her day." They both knew who "she" was, and Erik was well prepared for where this conversation was going.

"I am not here to ruin anything; I only wish Christine the fondest regards for her future." Erik stumbled over the woman's name, twisting and spitting it out as if the word hurt him. He wasn't convincing Meg, that much was obvious from her disapproving glare. "That's why I have come to make sure of her happiness. I will not believe it until I see it with my own eyes." Erik assured Meg, probing her with an unwavering gaze of his own.

"And what do you expect? To find her as unhappy as you are, waiting for the rescue of her Angel of Music?" Meg retorted, her words bit into the Phantom with a harsh honesty. She noticed this and drove even further. "Monsieur, I do not see this ending well for you, when you find her more joyous with the Vimconte than she ever was with you." Perhaps she had said too much, because Erik's eyes flashed with defiance and anger. Anger at Meg or himself, the world could not possibly know.

"If she truly is as happy as you say, then I will leave at once and never lay eyes on her again." He explained feverishly, leaning forward towards Meg who retracted at once. "I need only your assistance in entering the estate." Meg opened her mouth to interrupt the Phantom, but before she could continue he raised a hand wordlessly. Reaching inside his cloak, Erik pulled out a small yet deadly dagger. "I vow to you that I will not harm Christine or her fiance without her expressed desire. If I break my vow, then you may plunge this dagger into my heart until it stops beating. What do you say?" His voice did not waver and his eyes held the steely resolve of a fanatic. Meg glanced away, unable to bear that powerful gaze, and she felt her own facade crumbling.

"You will not hurt her, you say?" She heard her own voice pose the question, gentle and afraid.

"Never." His response was hushed like a fervent whisper or a consecrated bond in the making.

Meg raised her head to face the Phantom of the Opera for the last time that night. Her trusting eyes showed her answer. "I believe you." she said, and Madame David tossed the stew. The starving rats outside would not go hungry that night.

* * *

**Alright, kiddos. Tell me what you think! Review, follow, favorite, anything. Thanks for reading this far, and I'm glad to tell you all that the story is finally getting underway. Some fun action shall be coming up.~ I hope you all continue this journey with me. ^^**


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